the snow...
all the street intoxicated by it.

a passing car's head light
disturbs the intelligence of her eyes.
"in sleepless dreams, I know you,"
she tells me.

and like the snow blowing across the deserted street,
a smile spreads across her face
and as her green eyes slowly lift

I look into them
and see van gogh
sitting in a lonely field
of twisted cypress trees
forever blue, mysterious
and possessed.

then, as a street light comes on,
her slim white hand
(whitened by eternal snows) reaches

and into that deeper dark we walk

in the distance the lonely tooting of a taxi horn.

children waving
from the back
of a school bus window.

the flowers bloom.

run the halfway house.
the winos will be showered,
fed,
and then led
back
into infinite night.
they talk quietly to one another,
waiting,
and by the time
I have finished my 3rd cup of coffee
some of them are in the park
drunk already...

...eyes burning like a locomotives furnace,
eyes flutter,
a half spin,
the man kneels and then falls.
others just stand
and stare
as if already under the mortician's
knowing smile.

and yet,
some will rise
from bright mists at dawn,
cherubic and dew covered
survivors of the night's storm.
grim miracles
who will share a bottle with a friend
and then laugh
at the selective kindness of good men.

between the burning furnace and
the chill of the night
hungry strangers are waiting.

a new day begins.
all is quiet.

the bus station is empty
except for a homeless bag lady,
a mother and her child.

the janitor sweeps yesterday's dreams
from the worn floor.

the mother moves to a corner.
her son a shadow always at her side.
sad eyes needs someplace to go.

the bag lady moves to the corner.
she says something to the woman and her son.
I can not hear but
the mother smiles and the boy laughs
and they appear happy
long after the bag lady
has gone to talk to the lonely janitor.

she touches his shoulder.
he turns, nods and smiles.
and she is Jesus
creating small miracles
and harming no one.

in the shush of the brooms sweep,
the sun rises.
the birds are singing.
she moves into the flow of her heaven

an old man discovers a ghost in the closet

but in the mirror a young boy smiles.

the bow
touches
the strings
of the violin

one note,
one song.

through an open window
when a bulb burns out
a sliver of moonlight turns
tiny eyes red
and on little feet
the dimmest of dreams
from a corner
comes crawling.

when the night comes
through eyes closed
the room turns inside out.
the heart pounds away the seconds.
the edge moves closer
and the clock smiles.


when the night comes...

on the corner below my window
shadows whispering gather.
broken clouds
rolling dice that will never fall...

and on my knees
praying into the void
the toilet don't flush,
the toaster won't pop...
i grab the smoking toaster
and throw it out the window
the corner boys look up
the corner boys
are rushing up the stairs

me and the rat
waiting for the cops to come,
me and the rat
when the night won't leave
at 3 a.m.
eating donuts.

i'm falling into walls that appear to be rising above me